Not Alone
by elusivemuse
Summary: During one of Bruce Wayne's lavish parties, The Joker makes a surprise call, taking off with his secretary like a thief in the night. Alone and bound, Audrey is now under the Joker's control, or lack there of, subject to his own brand of chaos


**Hey all, this is my attempt at trying to write some of the Joker's intensity. It's an experiment, so please, let me know what you think. Your words are gold. Anywho, Don't own Batman nor am I making any money from this. Enjoy!**

Audrey groaned, her head rolling slowly back and forth. The feeling as though she was back on Bruce's yacht came swiftly to her, bringing the intense nausea to the surface. Like a drunken fool, she swung to the side, vomiting out the rich food she ingested at her boss's party. It barely occurred to her that she was tied up against a chair or that she was nowhere near the Palisades. No, immersed in her misery, she didn't pay attention to she swiftly irritated man in front of her.

A sharp slap threw her head sideways, stealing a cry of surprise, pain and alarm. Slowly, she turned back to face the man who hit her, her cheek numb and stinging at the same time. Bile coated her mouth and throat, more rising to the surface as she stared, unblinking, at Gotham's worst nightmare.

Fear tore through her instantly, followed swiftly by terror and panic. He was insane, she knew it, and everything about him screamed hysterical murder. She flinched as he leaned forward, his stale, bitter breath fanning her cheeks like toxic puffs. His previous meal left remnants in his decaying yellowed teeth. As he spoke, his words were disjointed, out of context, out of tone, making no sense, but that could have been the developing concussion from his hands.

Blue eyes darted everywhere, oddly taking note of the quality his clothes bore. They were clean, if a bit musty, well fitted and of fine fabric. It reminded her oddly of Bruce. A heavy chink brought her attention quickly back to the danger before her. She knew, without a doubt, that they were blades of some description.

His hands were everywhere, touching her cheek as he crooned mockingly at her. The throb in her mind made it hard to focus on the room around her, the dirty walls seemed to spin and twirl. She yearned for a moment, a chance to compose herself and try to find a means of escape.

He spoke to her, harsh and guttural, indistinguishable from the roaring headache. A harsh slap knocked her head to the side again before being thrown in the opposite direction as he backhanded her. Again and again, he hit her, no real sign of him slowing. Skin split open, blood poured down her cheek in rivets. He laughed happily, stepping back to admire his work.

It was then she noticed the camera, the red light blinking slowly. She screamed, begged, pleaded. It didn't matter to her if he thought her a coward, a whiny brat that couldn't handle a beating. She did before, back when the mob had their proverbial hands around her neck, but it was different, methodical; the man before her was insane, an agent of chaos.

She threw up again, unable to handle the stars behind her eyes and the swirling of her sight as he beat her. His hands shook as he brushed her hair back, in a mockery of a comforting gesture. When the room slowed its spinning, she focused on him, on his tongue when it darted out, wetting his sorely battered lips. She hated him, hated him for what he was doing to her, and hated what he was doing to Gotham.

But most of all, she was scared.

The scares were grotesque, hideous things that made her wonder what the true cause was. Oh, she had heard the rumors, heard about the different stories he told. Did he really know what had happened? Had Arkham muddled his mind so that he didn't know reality to real life…At least she assumed that he had escaped from the medical center, when all the other inmates broke out into the Narrows.

On the other hand, did he enjoy making up stories, confusing people, steering them in the completely wrong direction. It seemed to fit, it occurred to her as he slipped his blade down the neckline of her dress. White-hot pain darted up to her mind as he traced whimsical patterns on her chest. It hurt, it burned, and relief seemed to be so far beyond her reach.

Was anyone going to come for her? Was anyone going to save her? Batman had little luck going against this guy, his immortality, his untouchable nature, his all-knowing countenance, it seemed like nothing compared to the madman's crazed nature, the chaos he coaxed from society.

He began to talk to the camera, his disjointed tones, and strange words distant and confusing. Swiftly, he turned to her, his arm thrusting forward like lightening. Thunder burst against her chest, taking her breath away. Warm liquid dripped down the valley of her breasts, slipping and sliding towards her lap.

In idle silence, she looked down, the black handle of his knife jutting out of her chest. Pain was now beyond her, the blissful relief swelling close to her like a wave about to crash on the beach. She blinked once, twice, her head rising and her eyes meeting the man before her.

His expression was odd, expecting, and strangely focused. Waiting patiently with her as the darkness consumed her mind. It was comforting, that she wasn't alone. Although his company wasn't the one she imagined at her last moments, she was thankful he hadn't abandoned her.

Gloved hands reached out, this time without the ridicule or distain, stroking her cheek, her neck, fluttering over her eyes like the wind. She let out a soft sigh, the thudding in her chest slowing and stopping, her lids heavy and drooping.

She wasn't alone. That was something to be thankful for…


End file.
